I lost my favorite scarf this past Fall. I’m not sure how, it was a large scarf. As scarfs go, it had a long life, 33 years to be exact. It wasn’t fancy, something I bought from a street vendor when I was a student in London (I know, shut up Mary). My 21 year old self had not predicted needing a scarf, and, so, was woefully unprepared for the bluster of London. It was a simple affair, blue and purple squares making up more of a shawl than a scarf. It was on the thinner side, but was surprisingly warm. I got many compliments on it over the years, and it kept me warm inside and out, from cold offices and classrooms, to snowy days shoveling out my car. I have no idea how I lost it, and am still clutching to the possibility that it may turn up, like all those single earrings awaiting the return of their partner.
It feels significant. I know it’s just a lost scarf, something that happens every day, but this has been with me for the entirety of my adult life. It was a comfort, it always reminded me of a time of infinite potential, and it seemed to go with everything. I haven’t found a new one yet, at least not one that scratches old and new itches, and I’m not in a rush, because it feels significant. Significant in all the obvious Nancy Meyer’s screenplay ways: the ways of letting go, embracing the forthcoming, and opening the door to re-definition. But then there are the not so obvious unexpecteds. The glimpses of confidence born of a lifetime often half-lived through too many apologies and accommodations. The forgiveness of personal disappointments walking hand in hand with a more grounded clarity of purpose. The gratitude for the discovery of talents and comforts that don’t need to lead to recognition because they are propelled by joy, not agenda.
Strange that I lost this scarf the same year I lost my father; someone who was always a comfort, who always reminded me of my infinite potential, and who understood me better than anyone. This last sentence probably feels like the aha moment here. Grief and rebirth. Two losses, two ends of eras. Thesis delivered. Not so cut and dry from where I sit. I still think I’m going to find my old scarf, in the sleeve of some coat into which I did not delve deeply enough.
Deep down, I know that’s not going to happen. But I’m not rushing its successor. I am allowing that a new scarf will present itself when least expected. A scarf that will address the need at hand, that makes the world less cold. A scarf that accompanies me on the next 30 years. So, I’m trying to both pay attention and not. I did not know, when I found the old scarf, what it was going to mean. For the time being I am making the scarf below. It’s totally different. I don’t know if it will scratch the itch, or just be itchy. So I will relish the not knowing. I’ll let you know the results in another 33 years.
